Common Murder

by Val McDermid

  “How did you know who I was?” she demanded, full of suspicion. She never seemed to remember that, as the writer of several novels and a successful television series, she was a minor celebrity. It had often amused Lindsay.

  As usual, Rigano took his time in replying. “I recognized you from your photographs.” He paused, and just before Cordelia could draw again on her stock of paranoia, he added, “You know, on your dust jackets. And, of course, from television.”

  Fifteen love, thought Lindsay in surprise. They drove off and Lindsay swiveled round in her seat. “What’s the deal, then?”

  “I’ve just spoken to Mrs. Crabtree. She wasn’t keen, but I’ve persuaded her. I’ll take you there and introduce you to her. Then I’ll leave you to it. On the understanding that I can listen to the tapes afterward and that you will give me copies of the transcript as agreed. In return, I need to know who was at the peace camp last night and where each woman was between ten and eleven. If you can give me that basic information, then I know who I need to talk to further.”

  “Okay,” Lindsay agreed. “But it’ll be tomorrow before I can let you have that.”

  “Then tomorrow will have to do. The people who want quick results will have to be satisfied with the investigation proceeding at its own pace. Like any other investigation.”

  “Yes, but to people round here, he’s not quite like any other corpse, is he?” Cordelia countered.

  “That’s true,” Rigano retorted. “But while this remains my case, he will simply be a man who was unlawfully killed. To me, that is the only special thing about him.”

  That must endear you to your bosses, Cordelia thought. Just what is Lindsay getting into this time? Maverick coppers we don’t need.

  Cordelia steered carefully through the crowd of journalists and vehicles that still made the narrow road in front of Brownlow Cottages a cramped thoroughfare. Lindsay noticed the blond watcher was no longer there. At the end of the Crabtrees’ drive, Rigano wound down the window and shouted to the constable on duty there, “Open the gate for us, Jamieson!”

  The constable started into action, and as they drove inside, Lindsay could see the looks of fury on the faces of her rivals. As soon as the car stopped, Rigano got out and gestured to Lindsay to follow him. He was immediately distracted by journalists fifty yards away shouting their demands for copy, Lindsay took advantage of the opportunity to lean across and say urgently to Cordelia, “Listen, love, you can’t help me here. I want us to work as a team like we did before. Would you go back to the camp and see if you can get Jane to help you sort out this alibi nonsense that Rigano wants? And make it as watertight as possible. Okay?”

  “We have a deal,” said Cordelia, with a smile. “As the good superintendent says.”

  “Great. See you later,” Lindsay replied as she got out of the car and joined Rigano standing impatiently on the doorstep.

  “Mrs. Crabtree’s on her own,” he remarked. “There were some friends round earlier but she sent them away. The son, Simon, is out. He apparently had some urgent business to see to. So you should have a chance to do something more than ask superficial questions to which we all know the answers already.”

  He gave five swift raps on the door knocker. Inside, a dog barked hysterically. As the door opened Rigano insinuated himself into the gap to block the view of the photographers at the end of the drive. Using his legs like a hockey goalkeeper he prevented an agitated fox-terrier taking off down the drive to attack the waiting press eager to snatch a picture of Rupert Crabtree’s widow. Lindsay followed him into a long wide hallway. Rigano put his hand under Mrs. Crabtree’s arm and guided her through a door at the rear of the hall. The dog sniffed suspiciously at Lindsay, gave a low growl, and scampered after them.

  Lindsay glanced quickly around her. The occasional tables had genuine age, the carpet was dark brown and deep, the pictures on the wall were old, dark oils. This was money, and not arriviste money either. Nothing matched quite well enough for taste acquired in a job lot. Half of Lindsay felt envy, the other half contempt, but she didn’t have time to analyze either emotion. She reached into her bag and switched on her tape recorder, then entered the room behind the other two.

  She found herself in the dining room, its centerpiece a large rosewood drum table, big enough to seat eight people comfortably. Against one wall stood a long mahogany sideboard. The end of the room was almost completely taken up by large french windows which allowed plenty of light to glint off the silver candlesticks and rosebowl on the sideboard. On the walls hung attractive modern watercolors of cottage gardens. Lindsay took all this in and turned to the woman sitting at the table. Her pose was as stiff as the straight-backed chair she sat in. At her feet now lay the dog, who opened one eye from time to time to check that no one had moved significantly.

  “Mrs. Crabtree, this is Miss Lindsay Gordon. Miss Gordon’s the writer I spoke to you about on the phone. She’s to write a feature for Newsday. I give you my word, you can trust her. Don’t be afraid to tell her about your husband,” Rigano said.

  Emma Crabtree looked up and surveyed them both. She looked as if she didn’t have enough trust to go round, but she’d hand over what she had in the full expectation that it would be returned to her diminished. Her hair was carefully cut and styled, but she had not been persuaded either by husband or hairdresser to get rid of the gray that heavily streaked the original blonde. Her face showed the remnants of a beauty that had not been sustained by a strong bone structure once the skin had begun to sag and wrinkle. But the eyes were still lovely. They were large, hazel, and full of life. They didn’t look as if they had shed too many tears. The grief was all being carried by the hands, which worked continuously in the lap of a tweed skirt.

  She didn’t try to smile a welcome. She simply said in a dry voice, “Good afternoon, Miss Gordon.”

  Rigano looked slightly uncomfortable and quickly said, “I’ll be on my way now. Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Crabtree, I’ll be in touch.” He nodded to them both and backed out of the room.

  Emma Crabtree glanced at Lindsay briefly, then turned her head slightly to stare through the windows. “I’m not altogether sure why I agreed to speak to you,” she said. “But I suppose the superintendent knows best and if that’s the only way to get rid of that rabble that’s driving my neighbors to distraction, then so be it. At least you’ve not been hanging over my garden gate all day. Now, what do you want to know?”

  Her words and her delivery cut the ground from under Lindsay’s feet. All the standard approaches professing a spurious sympathy were rendered invalid by the widow’s coolness. The journalist also sensed a degree of hostility that she would have to disarm before she could get much useful information. So she changed the tactics she had been working out in the car and settled on an equally cool approach. “How long had you been married?” she asked.

  “Almost twenty-six years. We celebrated our silver wedding last May.”

  “You must have been looking forward to a lot more happy years, then?”

  “If you say so.”

  “And you have two children, is that right?”

  “Hardly children. Rosamund is twenty-four now and Simon is twenty-one.”

  “This must have come as an appalling shock to you all?” Lindsay felt clumsy and embarrassed, but the other woman’s attitude was so negative that it was hard to find words that weren’t leaden and awkward.

  “In many ways, yes. When the police came to the door last night, I was shaken. Though the last thing that I would have expected was for Rupert to be bludgeoned to death taking Rex for his bedtime stroll.”

  “Were you alone when the police arrived with the news?”

  She shook her head. “No. Simon was in. He’d been working earlier in the evening, he rents a friend’s lockup garage in Fordham. He’s got all his computing equipment there. He’s got his own computer software business, you know. He commutes on his motorbike so he can come and go as he pleases.”

  At la
st she was opening up. Lindsay gave a small sigh of relief. “So the first you knew anything was amiss was when the police came to the door?”

  “Well, strictly speaking, it was just before they rang the bell. Rex started barking his head off. You see, the poor creature had obviously been frightened off by Rupert’s attacker and he’d bolted and come home. He must have been sitting on the front doorstep. Of course, when he saw the police, he started barking. He’s such a good watchdog.”

  “Yes, I’d noticed,” Lindsay replied. “Forgive me, Mrs. Crabtree, but something you said earlier seems to me to beg a lot of questions.”

  “Really? What was that?”

  “It seemed to me that you implied that you’re not entirely surprised that your husband was murdered. That someone should actively want him dead.”

  Mrs. Crabtree’s head turned sharply toward Lindsay. She looked her up and down as if seeing her properly for the first time. Her appraisal seemed to find something in Lindsay worth confiding in.

  “My husband was a man who enjoyed the exercise of power over people,” she said after a pause. “He loved to be in control even in matters of small degree. There was nothing that appealed to Rupert so much as being able to dictate to people, whether over their plea on a motoring offense or how they should live their entire lives.

  “Even when shrouded in personal charm of the sort my husband had, it’s not an endearing characteristic. Miss Gordon, a lot of people had good cause to resent him. Perhaps Rupert finally pushed someone too far . . .”

  “Can you think of anyone in particular?” Lindsay asked coolly, suppressing the astonishment she felt at Mrs. Crabtree’s open admission but determined to cash in on it.

  “The women at the peace camp, of course. He was determined not to give up the battle against them till every last one was removed. He didn’t just regard it as a political pressure campaign. He saw it as his personal mission to fight them as individuals and as a group and wear them down. He was especially vindictive toward the one who broke his nose. He said he’d not be satisfied till she was in prison.”

  “How did you feel about that mission of your husband’s? How did it affect you?” Lindsay probed.

  Mrs. Crabtree shrugged. “I thought he was doing the right thing to oppose the camp. Those women have no morals. They even bring their children to live in those shocking conditions. No self-respecting mother would do that. No, Rupert was right. The missiles are there for our protection, after all. And that peace camp is such an eyesore.”

  “Did it take up a lot of your husband’s time?”

  “A great deal. But it was a good cause, so I tried not to mind.” Mrs. Crabtree looked away and added, “He really cared about what he was doing.”

  “Was there anyone else who might have had a motive?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve no idea who might hold a professional grievance. But you should probably talk to William Mallard. He’s the treasurer of Ratepayers Against Brownlow’s Destruction. He and Rupert were in the throes of some sort of row over the group’s finances. And he’d be able to tell you more about Rupert’s relations with other people in the group. There was one man that Rupert got thrown out a few weeks ago. I don’t know any details, I’m afraid. Does any of this help?”

  “Oh yes, I need to get as full a picture as possible. Your husband was obviously a man who was very active in the community.”

  Emma Crabtree nodded. Lindsay thought she detected a certain cynicism in her smile. “He was indeed,” she concurred. “One could scarcely be unaware of that. And for all his faults, Rupert did a lot for this area. He was very good at getting things done. He brooked no opposition. He was a very determined man, my husband. Life will be a lot quieter without him.” For the first time, a note of regret had crept into her voice.

  Lindsay brooded on what had been said. It seemed to her that it was now or never for the hard questions. “And did his forcefulness extend to his family life?” she pursued.

  Mrs. Crabtree flashed a shrewd glance at her. “In some ways,” she replied cautiously. “He was determined the children shouldn’t be spoilt, that they should prove themselves before getting any financial help from him. Rosamund had to spend three years slaving away in restaurants and hotel kitchens before he’d lend her enough to set up in business on her own. Then Simon wanted to set up this computer software company. But Rupert refused to lend him the capital he needed. Rupert insisted that he stay on at college and finish his accountancy qualifications. But Simon refused. Too like his father. He went ahead with his business idea, in spite of Rupert. But of course, without any capital, he hasn’t got as far as he had hoped.”

  “Presumably, though, he’ll inherit a share of his father’s money now?” Lindsay pursued cautiously.

  “More than enough for his business, yes. It’ll soften the blow for him of losing his father. He’s been very withdrawn since . . . since last night. He’s struggling to pretend that life goes on, but I know that deep down he’s in great pain.”

  Her defense of her son was cut off by the opening of the dining-room door. Lindsay was taken aback. She failed to see how anyone could have entered the house without the dog barking as it had when she and Rigano arrived. She half turned to weigh up the new arrival.

  “I’m back, mother,” he said brusquely. “Who’s this?”

  Simon Crabtree was a very tall young man. He had his father’s dark curling hair and strong build, but the impression of forcefulness was contradicted by a full, soft mouth. Lindsay suddenly understood just why Emma Crabtree was so swift to come to his defense.

  “Hello, darling,” she said. “This is Miss Gordon. She’s a journalist. Superintendent Rigano brought her. We’re hoping that now all the other journalists will leave us alone.”

  He smiled, and Lindsay realized that he had also inherited his slice of Rupert’s charm. “That bunch? They’ll go as soon as they’ve got another sensation to play with,” he said cynically. “There was no need to invite one in, mother.” He turned to Lindsay and added, “I hope you’ve not been hassling my mother. That’s the last thing she needs after a shock like this.”

  “I realize that. I wanted to know a bit about your father. I’m writing a magazine feature about the camp, and your father played an important role that should be recognized. I need to talk to everyone who’s involved and your mother kindly agreed to give me some time. In return, I’ve promised to get rid of the mob at your gate. A few quotes should persuade them to leave,” Lindsay replied, conciliatory.

  “You’d be better employed talking to those women at the peace camp. That way you’d get an interview with my father’s murderer, since the police don’t seem to be in any hurry to arrest her.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” Lindsay said.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? One of those so-called peace women had already assaulted my father. It doesn’t take much intelligence to work it out from there, does it?” Lindsay wondered if it was grief that made him appear so brusque.

  “I can understand why you feel like that,” she sympathized. “I’m sure your father’s death has upset you. But at least now you’ll be able to afford to set up your business properly. That will be a kind of tribute in a way, won’t it?”

  He shot a shrewd look at Lindsay. “The business is already set up. It’s going to be successful anyway. All this means is that I can do things a bit quicker. That’s all. My father’s death means more to me than a bloody business opportunity. Mother, I don’t know why you brought this up.” Turning back to Lindsay he added. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. My mother is too tired to deal with more questioning.” He looked expectantly at his mother.

  The conditioned reflex built up over the years of marriage to Rupert Crabtree came into play. Simon had come into his inheritance in more ways than one. “Yes,” she said, “I think I’ve told you all I can, Miss Gordon. If you don’t mind.”

  Lindsay got to her feet. “I’d like to have a few words with
your daughter, Mrs. Crabtree. When will she be home?”

  “She doesn’t live here any more. We’re not expecting her till the funeral,” Simon interjected abruptly. “I’ll show you out now.” He opened the door and held it open. Lindsay took the hint and thanked the widow routinely.

  In the hall, with the door closed behind them, Lindsay tried again. “Your father’s death has obviously upset you. You must have cared for him very deeply.”

  His face remained impassive. “Is that what you’ve been asking my mother about? Oh well, I suppose it’s what the masses want to read with their cornflakes. You can tell your readers that anyone who knew my father will realize how deeply upset we all are and what a gap he has left in our lives. Okay?” He opened the front door and all but shoved her through it. “I’m sure you’ve already got enough to fabricate a good story,” was his parting shot as he closed the door behind her.

  She flipped open her bag, switched off the tape recorder, and headed off down the drive to offer a couple of minor tidbits to her rivals.

  7

  Bill Bryman had offered to drive Lindsay the mile back to the peace camp principally because he thought he might be able to prize more information from her than the bare quotes she had handed out to the pack. He was out of luck. Neither gratitude nor friendship would make Lindsay part with those pearls she had that were printable. But as she left the Crabtree’s house, she noticed that the Special Branch man with the red Fiesta was back, which added indefinably to her eagerness to leave the scene. So she had frankly used Bill’s car as a getaway vehicle to escape her colleagues and any watching eyes. As soon as he pulled up near the van, she was off. There was hardly a sign of life at the camp, and she realized a meeting must be in progress. Clever Cordelia, she thought.

  She struggled through the mud in her high heels to Cordelia’s car and retrieved her other clothes. Back at the van, she changed into jeans and a sweater then set off jogging down the road toward the phone box on the main road, in the opposite direction to Brownlow Common Cottages. She had deliberately chosen the further of the two boxes in the neighborhood to avoid being overheard by any fellow journalists hanging around waiting to talk to their offices. To her relief the box was empty. She rang the police at Fordham to check that there were no new developments, then got through to the Clarion’s copy room. She dictated a heavily edited account of her interview with Emma and Simon Crabtree, coupled with an update on the case.